


Hung (Up)

by oceaxe



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Other, discovering the wonders of orgasm, ingenious symbiotes with boundary issues, it's hard to have a big dick, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Eddie's got a hang-up about his dick. The symbiote is a little hung up about it, too.





	Hung (Up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoeOcean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoeOcean/gifts).



> For RoeOcean
> 
> Happy holidays and sorry this is a bit late, the words just did not want to come. (pun intended? maybe so)

**Recipient:** RoeOcean

 

Something is happening. No, that isn’t right. Something has just happened, something cataclysmic. It was in stasis and now it’s not, it’s alert. But the event, whatever it was, is over. It feels good, basking in a tidal pulse of pleasure. Calm, but its host’s heart is still racing. 

It does a quick scan of Eddie’s body. There is wetness underneath them. Did Eddie soil himself while asleep? The substance is not waste, or not the kind of waste it has encountered before. The scanning and analysis becomes sluggish as another wave of deep contentedness washes over it. It feels _so good_ ; perhaps investigation can wait awhile. 

Eddie stirs and moans, sliding a hand down the surface of the bed and under himself. He jerks, and the lovely ripples of pleasure recede as adrenaline courses through him. “Nnnghh, ugh,” he murmurs, then falls asleep again. But the symbiote is not pulled down with the host. Instead, it slithers through muscle and viscera to the nerve center. It needs to know what happened.

It must have originated in Eddie’s dream. That is lucky, because Eddie’s memories and conscious thoughts are not nearly as clear as Eddie’s dreams. The delicious feeling of gratification, hormones fizzing gently in their bloodstream, buoys it along, helping it trace the origin of the feeling.

It finds a cache of recent images, but they’re fading quickly enough that it catches only a glimpse of Eddie, naked and pushing at something, before they fade and are replaced by Eddie’s current dream, which involves him explaining the meaning of the phrase “tickle the pickle” to a bobbing and grinning head. Amusement swirls through it, and fondness. Eddie’s speech is not like any other human; it’s erratic, colorful, refuses to be bounded by rules. Like Eddie himself. 

Their body shifts in the sheets, turning over, and Eddie groans. “Ah shit,” he says, hand covering the area where the sticky, slimy fluid stains his underclothes. 

**What was that?**

“Huh? Oh, this? This is… it’s uh… I had a wet dream.”

**There was no water in your dream. Also, that substance is slimy, not wet**

Blood rushed to Eddie’s cheeks. What an odd physiological reaction. 

“That’s—well, the dream isn’t wet. It’s the slimy… ugh, it’s not… it’s jizz. It’s what happens when a guy…” Eddie stops for a moment. The word he’s trying hard not to think echoes in his brain. 

**Ejaculates**

A long, defeated sigh. “Yeah.”

**That is for making a baby**

Eddie makes a non-committal noise. “Sure, yeah. It can be.” 

**Are we going to make a baby?**

Eddie’s heart does something violent that can’t be good for him. A gentle swirl around it has it relaxed and beating normally. 

“Uh-”

**That was a joke**

The laugh it makes sounds sinister, it knows. But Eddie laughs too, and flops back in the bed before leaping up. 

“Gotta get cleaned up,” he mutters. He stumbles toward the bathroom and turns on the shower. The water sluices over their body, and Eddie sighs, and it feels good. But not as good as the feeling that suffused them, pleasure strong enough to jolt it out of stasis. It purrs at the memory. 

“Wait a sec,” Eddie says, after spitting water out of his mouth. “You said there was no water in the dream. You saw the dream?” A trickle of adrenaline courses through him. 

**There was nothing to see. There was a sensation of being held tightly, warmth and friction. It felt good**

Eddie is silent, but his internal temperature has risen. He shuts off the water and steps out of the tub. A tendril extends, brings the towel to him, and he takes it. 

“Thank you.”

**You are welcome**

“Hey, uh. Can you—can my dreams just be a “me” thing?”

It doesn’t understand, but it senses that this is important. 

**Yes. We will not share dreams.**

It can respect this new dream embargo. Dreams are not the only way to discover what might make that feeling return. Eddie enjoyed it. It will be good for both of them. 

 

***

Ever since the symbiote caught him covered in his own come, Eddie’s been aware that he has a problem. 

Turns out, he can only suppress his libido for so long. And now that floodgates have opened, his libido is taking revenge. The dream that his other claims it didn’t really see was… powerful. It’s still running through his head. To be able to fuck without worrying he was hurting the other person. To feel totally encompassed, totally accepted, totally wanted. It’s not something he’s experienced much in his life. Honestly, and this is a sad, sad fact, it’s not something he really lets himself hope for anymore.

He’s been trying not to think about it in the days since. It’s not working. And now he’s at his idiotic new “job.” Honest to god, what the fuck is an “internet culture reporter,” anyway? He’s basically writing articles about memes. It’s a big step down from being a real journalist. It certainly doesn’t require him to be on the street or take any risks. It barely requires him to be in an office, he could just hang out in bed and bullshit his way through the assignments. 

But here he is anyway, trying desperately to focus on some dumb ass thing trending on Twitter while his dick is sending him constant messages that it’s sick of being ignored. That he has better things to do with his time, and more to the point, with his hands.

But there’s a reason he hasn’t been jerking it, and the reason is currently coiled up in his abdomen, restlessly swirling around and making him feel like he has butterflies in his tummy.

 _What the fuck, are you hungry again?_ He mentally shouts at Venom. He’s figured out that if he doesn’t speak aloud, or think something really clearly and deliberately, Venom usually doesn’t hear him. Or it’s ignoring him out of spite. He hasn’t figured out which, but he’s hoping for the former. Because having an alien monitor all of his thoughts is just too upsetting to contemplate. 

**Not hungry, Eddie. Just… bored. We need to move**

As if Eddie’s going to be moving from his desk anytime soon, with the boner he’s sporting. God damn, that dream really got all the way down inside him.

 _Not right now, okay big guy? I gotta turn this so-called article in to my editor._ This answer clearly isn’t satisfactory, judging by the way his other continues to surge through him, circling around like a dog pacing a too-small apartment. 

The one bright spot in this, other than having someone to talk to pretty much whenever he wants, someone to share his days with, is that his other still seems uninterested in anything going on below Eddie’s belt, so to speak. Once, in the early days, it had asked **What is that?** when he draining the lizard. It hadn’t seemed too interested in the response, and for that Eddie has been unendingly grateful. He really doesn’t want to get into all his hang-ups about his dick, but as long as Venom doesn’t care...

He tries to suppress the traitorous thought, but it’s too late. That train has left the station. Another image from the dream surges to the front of his mind, and he nearly groans aloud, pressing the heel of his hand against his raging hard-on. 

Eddie realizes his mistake immediately. If he’d thought his erection was raging before, now it’s about to go berserker. He finds himself grinding on his hand and scoots his chair further under his desk. Hopefully the new guy—well, _newer_ guy, Eddie was just hired a month ago—won’t pop in to say…

“Hey, Eddie.” 

Oh crap. Tremaine has really terrible timing. And a really, really nice body. 

“Uh, hey, Tremaine.” The edge of the desk nearly bisects Eddie as he tries to ensure that his lap is 100% invisible. Tremaine is thick in all the right places and he’s kind and has a deep voice and his clothes stretch across his shoulders in a deeply compelling way. This isn’t what Eddie needs right now. “What do you need, bud?”

Tremaine steps back a little at the manic tone in Eddie’s voice. Or maybe it’s the way he’s essentially vibrating with restrained energy. “Nothing, just wanted to say hey. How’s— hey man, you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” and oh great, now he’s getting red in the face. He’s got to get rid of this guy and go to the bathroom. Stat. “Actually, I’m feeling a little sick. Food poisoning, maybe. Could be a stomach bug.” 

Tremaine loses a few attractiveness points by recoiling as though stung. Not that Eddie was hoping for a gentlemanly escort to the shitter, but a little concern would be nice. 

“Oh, cool, man,” he says, eyes darting around for an escape. “I mean, not cool, sorry. Hope you feel better,” he says as he basically runs away. Eddie doesn’t hate to watch him leave (because that was the whole point of that lame ruse), but he really does love to watch him go. His cock twitches and he grabs a folder to hold in front of himself as he darts to the men’s. 

Which is blessedly, excellently empty, thank fuck. Eddie bangs into a stall and drops the folder, palming his cock through his lightweight cords. It feels so good that he doesn’t even have to get it out, he just keeps stroking, eyes rolling back in his head as he bucks into one hand and bites down on the other to keep himself silent. The images from his dream echo through his head, but his other is noticeably absent. Or silent. 

Eddie comes into his pants, relief and bliss flooding him. Until he looks down and sees the enormous wet spot and realizes he’s gonna have to walk through the office looking like the poster boy for either incontinence or perversity. 

Well, it can’t be as bad as climbing into a lobster tank.

He’s steeling himself for the trip when he senses Venom manifesting near his waist. 

**How did you have a wet dream? You were awake**

“It’s—it wasn’t—it can happen when I’m awake. Uh. Not just in dreams.” A thrill of horror lances through him as he waits for its inevitable barrage of questions. He’d really been hoping to never have this conversation again.

But Venom just broadcasts a mental shrug and falls silent again. 

Eddie manages, by the grace of some pitying god, to get back to his cubicle without being seen. He has to tie his hoodie around his waist for the ride home, but freezing in the San Fran fog is worth it not to have the whole city staring at his crotch. 

That weekend, he’s lying in bed, letting himself think vaguely about heat and wetness and being engulfed and surrounded. His cock thickens, stiff and pulsing in his underpants and he slides a hand in, feeling the soft skin over the engorged flesh. He can’t believe he’s letting himself do this. He can’t believe Venom is letting him do this, with no commentary. 

Then again, he recalls, his other didn’t seem particularly curious about his little episode in the office bathroom. It probably wasn’t paying attention; maybe (Eddie mentally crosses his fingers) all his shyness has been totally unnecessary. Maybe Venom doesn’t care about sex. Maybe Eddie could raw Tremaine until they were both coming their brains out and Venom wouldn’t give a rip. He thinks about it, thinks about spreading someone wide, sinking into tight, delicious heat. Then waits. 

There’s nothing. 

So, okay. Okay, he can do this. He can fucking do this! With a sigh, he grips his length with one hand, shoving his pants down with the other. Fuck, it feels phenomenal, the friction sending sparks of ecstasy through his groin and up his spine. He finds a rhythm as his hips start shifting, pumping up into his fist. He’s got his feet planted on the bed, knees up, and he’s working his cock like he hasn’t in months, and he wants to scream, it feels so good.

It feels, honestly, better than he can remember it ever feeling. His skin is on fire, and it’s like with every stroke of his fingers, he’s caressing his entire body. A simple squeeze on his shaft, a light tug on his balls, has him gasping like a fish on a line, jerking up like he’s been electrocuted. In his mind, he’s sunk deep inside someone, thrusting as fast and hard as he wants, and they’re pushing back onto him, urging him on, demanding more. 

The feelings amplify until Eddie is crying out, head thrashing and coming all over himself. Jesus, that was… that was the best time he’s had jerking off in, well. Since his marathon jerk-off sessions in the wake of getting booted by the network and then Anne. He lays there, dazed, for a few minutes, a goofy smile on his face. Which gradually fades as he replays the last few minutes. That was not a normal orgasm. He’s still sky-high on dopamine and it’s been… he turns his head to check his alarm clock. It’d been 6am when he woke up. It’s 7am now. 

Eddie’s not a minute-man, not with his lovers and not on his own. But an hour for a wank? He’s never managed that before, not even when he was masturbating like he was practicing for the Olympics. 

He closes his eyes, feeling humiliated and panicked. It’s more than likely, it’s inevitable that Venom was involved in that. Amplifying the sensations. Feeding on them, but not knowing what they’re for, what they mean. He can’t even begin to list all the ways in which that’s wrong. 

Eddie cleans himself up on autopilot, tucking himself away in his underwear and resolving to keep it in his pants for… well, indefinitely. 

***

The symbiote has no reference for what they experienced, first in the office and then at home, a few days ago. It was so shocked by the sensation of— Eddie thinks of it as “coming”— how delicious it felt. Now it can’t stop thinking about that sensation. 

Based on the images in that Eddie focused on, it’s clear that it has to do with sex— “making a baby”—something that it hasn’t had a lot of interest in. It’s gleaned enough from tv and the networked hivemind that it knows sex involves the nether regions of humans getting variously wet and/or hard and then joining. There’s sweat involved, and weird animalistic moaning. It had assumed that the whole thing was rather painful. 

But that— _masturbation_ — wasn’t painful. Confused and fascinated, it goes back over the two times that Eddie came while touching his weird dangly part. His penis, that’s the word. It mostly just excretes liquid waste, so it’s no wonder that it escaped notice. It just didn’t seem important.

It’s important.

But Eddie doesn’t seem to think so. He hasn’t touched his penis since Wednesday morning, except to piss. The symbiote knows that he’s trying to avoid it learning more about masturbation and sexual pleasure. But Eddie should already know by now that certain things are, by their very nature, “we” things. And the symbiote intends to make it very clear that this is one of them.

Eddie throws on his threadbare hoodie and heads for Mrs. Chen’s, a regular Saturday morning routine. He’s vibrating with barely suppressed energy, and not all of it is his own. The symbiote directs his attention to an uncharacteristic pile of peaches in the meager selection of produce near the frozen section. They look ripe and plush, round and full. Eddie’s gaze rests on them and a light pressure on his optic nerve encourages him to stare until it can feel a flicker of response. 

After a long moment, Eddie’s salivary gland activates. Wrong response. 

**They look delicious**

Eddie twitches. _Yeah,I’m allergic to stone fruit_ , he mentally shouts, and the symbiote winces. It’s encouraged Eddie to believe that it can’t hear his thoughts until he internally vocalizes him, which has worked wonders in terms of obscuring its true abilities to read him. But the harmless ruse has its drawbacks. 

On the way back to their home, it scrutinizes every human that passes for potential. There’s a runner with shorts that are too scant for the ambient temperature, with an ass that resembles Tremaine’s, but it can’t get Eddie to shift his attention in time. 

Seducing Eddie Brock is going to take a lot more ingenuity than the symbiote initially thought. 

It doesn’t know why Eddie’s being so stupid about this. Orgasms are their own reward. It’s never felt pure, concentrated pleasure like that, there’s no equivalent among his people. Not even the pleasure of eating heads, or finding a compatible host, compares. But Eddie is not merely compatible. Eddie is perfect. They will share this with each other, no matter how long it takes.

 

***

 

They’re playing a game of cat and mouse, he and his other. Eddie has tried to pretend he didn’t know what was going on, but that charade is getting old.

The thing is, though its first efforts were absurdly weak, Venom has gotten so good at engineering arousing situations that he can’t remain in denial anymore about what it wants. He nearly came in his pants on the BART the other day, just feeling the rhythmic rocking of the train car and Venom feeding back the sensations to him over and over, ratcheting up the hypnotic vibration until he could feel it everywhere. That’s just too humiliating to risk again. 

So when, a week or so after he rubbed one out in bed and realized that Venom was most definitely along for the ride, he gives in, if only for the sake of his poor balls. Which are bluer than he’s ever thought possible, thanks to a lifetime of learning that the thing he wants is something he’ll never have. 

It’s late on a Sunday morning. His head hurts a bit from drinking too much the night before, in an attempt to drown out what he now knows is inevitable. Why he can’t just fucking have the conversation, he doesn’t know. Except he’s never had the conversation with anyone. It’s too frightening to hear that they don’t want what he wants, can’t take what he has to give. 

Deep down, if he’s honest, it’s the fact that Venom probably could take what he’s got that has him running scared. Well, that and the fact that he still doesn’t know what any of this means to the symbiote. 

But here he is, head throbbing—both of them, actually— and no sooner has he registered the headache than it’s gone. But the other throbbing, that’s not gone. No, that’s still there, and in the pattern of the last few days, it’s ramping up in exponential increments. 

**Want to take care of you, Eddie**

“Nnnngh, yeah, I know,” he groans and god, he’s so close, so close to taking himself in hand. 

**If you know, why won’t you let me?**

“I can’t explain why,” he admits. Thoughts assail him, memories of past lovers and partners flinching when they finally got his pants off. Images of him giving pleasure with his mouth, his hands, but never his cock. 

**I didn’t like it before but now I see that it’s beautiful**

There’s a whining sound coming from his throat. The effort it takes not to touch his cock when Venom is so totally focused on making him want it is enormous. 

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he says, frustrated beyond belief. 

**Let me see it**

“You’ve seen it.” 

**Let me see it like this**

That’s the final straw. Eddie shoves his pants down and gets a hand on himself, shuddering with relief and then immediately that blossoms into gratification he can barely comprehend. “Stop doing that,” he begs. “Stop or I’m gonna-”

**Come? I want you to**

Shaking, he grabs himself around the base with both hands. “If I’m going to do this, you gotta let me do it.”

**But it feels delicious, Eddie. Don’t you want to know how you make me feel?**

His head falls back as his eyes squeeze close and he gives in to the sensations completely. "Just don’t— don’t touch me, okay?" He manages to ask, then he starts stroking.

Of course Venom doesn’t let up just because he asked. It doesn’t touch him, not physically, but inside it’s lighting up all his receptors and magnifying the response. 

**Not magnifying. Multiplying. We are feeling this together**

Images cascade through his mind, images he had no idea Venom could see. These aren’t memories, they’re not dreams. They’re fantasies. He bucks up frantically into his fist. He had no idea his body could withstand this kind of sensory assault. Precome is drenching his fist now but his orgasm won’t come. It’s fucking insane. It’s fucking amazing.

The images are all of himself with his other, the two of them, moving and writhing together. His other engulfs and surrounds his cock as his hips piston ferociously, shoving his cock inside a swirling, heaving mass. The mass shifts, becomes a body, becomes thighs and an ass and a strong, broad back. The body, his other’s manifested form, takes each thrust like it can’t get enough. It growls filthy encouragement Everything about this is wrong. Everything about this is what he wants. 

All he’s ever wanted is to give pleasure with his cock. 

**That’s exactly what you’re doing right now. You’re giving me pleasure with your cock**

White heat turns his nervous system into a crucible of ecstasy. 

His consciousness takes its own sweet time in returning, gentle waves of awareness washing over him with increasing clarity.

He’s warm. He’s languid. He’s not alone. No one has run away, no one has cried, and if he’s not wrong, both of them came their brains out.

**Technically, I don’t have a brain, but you are correct**

Eddie laughs weakly, but his smile lingers for a long time.

**Thank you**

“You are welcome,” he says.

 

 

 


End file.
